


as the clouds roll by

by PitViperOfDoom



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29923416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitViperOfDoom/pseuds/PitViperOfDoom
Summary: If Jon had a penny for every time someone stole his coat and told him it was for his own good, he would have two pennies. It wasn't a lot, but it still happened twice.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 337





	as the clouds roll by

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Sea
> 
> Warnings: Jon's grandmother being a bad guardian, Jurgen Leitner displaying mindsets comparable to colonialism, Jon experiencing traumatic events that affect him for years after the fact.
> 
> This is a prequel to [and i won't let you choke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745030). I've been thinking about it for a while, and TMA Fantasy Week was a great chance to finally write it. Enjoy!

The day after Jon’s eighth birthday, he crept out of his grandmother’s house and went to the beach by himself.

This was not unusual. Gran had long since given up on keeping up with him, and as long as he made it home before any policemen noticed him wondering alone again, she wouldn’t be too upset about his absence. Besides, on this day in particular, it was only fair. The week before, he’d gotten her to promise that she’d take him to the beach for his birthday, and when the day came, she had fallen asleep in the recliner and forgotten.

The sky was gray and overcast as Jon hurried along, rucksack bumping against his back with each step. The air smelled wet and heavy, and even without his fur on, Jon could feel his skin prickling. He knew what bad weather felt like, but the sea was calling to him, and if he waited any longer to answer, he would throw a tantrum. And Gran said he was too old for tantrums.

Just a quick swim. Nothing wrong with a little bad weather. He’d be wet already, so what difference would a little rain make?

The wind was picking up when he made it to the cove. It was a little after noon, though with the sun behind heavy cloud cover, he could hardly tell. The place was as empty and secluded as it had ever been, too much of a rocky eyesore to attract tourists, especially in weather like this. It was perfect.

Jon set his rucksack down, wedging it carefully in the lee of a jutting rock. Then, reaching in, he pulled out his coat.

He’d lost his white fur early, so long ago that he barely remembered having it at all. It was silver-gray and spotted now, pretty in its own right. He thought so, at least. Gran never seemed to have an opinion either way, except to chide him for being silly.

Shaking with excitement—the sea was so _close_ —he put his coat on. Instantly the chilly wind could no longer touch him. Jon put the hood on against the cold, and made it into the shallows before he stopped having legs. By then, he didn’t _need_ legs.

The sea welcomed him with open arms as it always did, and Jon shut his nostrils and ears and opened his eyes instead. He turned a somersault, reveling in the rush of freedom that mingled with the feeling of being held and embraced.

Things always felt so  _clearer_ down here. Even memories were sharper. He could see his mother’s face as clearly as if she were swimming beside him. He could see her smile, hear her voice, feel the softness of skin  and fur.

In his joy, Jon didn’t notice the sea turning on him until it was already too late.

The storm dragged him  away from the shore , farther out than he had ever ventured before. No matter how desperately he struggled  and battered himself against the waves,  he couldn’t break free of the current. He quickly grew exhausted, and then it was all he could do to stay close to the surface  and keep from being dragged even farther out to sea .

Ev entually the storm tossed him up on the shore again, far away from the cove, even farther away from the docks and tourist beaches. Exhausted, frightened, and lost, he crawled out of reach of the tide and tucked himself between the rocks to wait out the storm.

The police found him the following morning. Jon woke up to a stranger’s hand on his coat, and followed his first instinct by biting it.

***

The world was a colder place without his fur, and an emptier one without the sea.

The morning after the storm, after the police delivered him home, his grandmother took the coat from his shoulders, carried it up to the attic, and locked it in a trunk. It would be safe there, she told him. It was the same place she kept his mother’s coat, in fact. And, most importantly, he could have it back when he was older and more responsible.

Obviously, this promise failed to placate him. The coat was _his,_ after all, his and no one else’s. His mother told him it was his, that no one had any right to take it from him any more than they had a right to his heart. When Gran took it away, he cried and screamed and threw an awful tantrum, and all he got for his trouble was an early bedtime without dinner.

“You’re too young to be trusted with something like that,” she told him the following morning, when he was calm enough to try to explain to her what Mum said about seal coats and hearts. “Certainly too young to be wandering off to the ocean on your own. You can have it back when you’re old enough. Until then, it’s staying right where it is.”

The call of the sea was muted without his coat around his shoulders, but he still heard it. It set him wandering from time to time, down to the beach or as close as he could get before someone noticed a child wandering around unattended. He wasn’t sure what he would do when he got there, if he would try to swim without his fur on. He couldn’t seem to get that far anymore. But he kept trying, until the day Gran finally caught him as he was slipping out.

Her hand was wrinkled and dry but still strong for an old woman, especially against the strength of an eight-year-old boy with half his heart under lock and key. No matter how he pulled and wriggled, he couldn’t break her grip on his wrist.

Gran took hold of his chin and made him look at her. “It could storm again today,” she told him, and he froze in place. “Is that what you want?”

Without warning, tears welled up in his eyes. The sea was muted but the memories were sharp—thunder and rough currents and heaving darkness, pulling him every which way with no sense of up or down.

“At any moment, the weather could turn,” Gran went on, calm and matter of fact as if—well, as if describing the weather. “And the current could pull you out to sea, so far that you’d never reach the shore again. You could _drown_. It isn’t safe.”

She stopped there, because he was crying too hard to argue, and wouldn’t stop crying for another hour even when she scolded him for carrying on. But it worked, and if there was one thing Gran was good at, it was remembering what worked.

When she caught him undoing the lock on the front door, she reminded him of the storm. When they were out on errands and he began to tug at her grip on his hand, she reminded him of the storm. When she caught him staring up at the attic door with longing in his eyes, she reminded him of the storm. Every time the sea called to him, Gran was there to remind him how quickly it could turn on him, how easy it was to drown in its embrace.

As time passed, he learned to block out the ocean’s call. It wasn’t worth the trouble, or the risk, or the argument—not for memories that grew hazier the longer he spent furless on dry land. Each year that passed was another year without his coat and without the sea—and he was doing fine, wasn’t he? It was proof that he didn’t need either.

Besides—it might storm.

* * *

It was only in university that he allowed himself to think of it again.

Consciously, that is. The desire never truly left him, muffled as it was beneath long-ingrained fear. Some part of him hoped that moving away from the sea would quiet the longing that scabbed over in his heart, but not even city stones and traffic could drown out its distant call. So he bore it as he always did, stoic and stubborn as he buried himself in his studies, until inevitably he began to sicken.

He didn’t notice at first. Or maybe he did, but he pressed it down, like he always did when his half-heart beat too loudly and painfully to be ignored. He told himself that it was stress, that it was his workload, that he hadn’t gotten enough sleep, that he’d caught something from his classmates.

“You look awful,” Georgie informed him one afternoon, because she might have found him charming enough to date but she was never one to mince words.

Barely listening, Jon found his eyes drawn to her tail.

Jon couldn’t remember whether he’d told her what he was, or she’d spotted him from across the lecture hall and smelled the saltwater on him. But ever since she found out, she never hid her tail around him. There were certain occasions on which she hid it out in public—some people couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, she explained while he suppressed a shudder—but here, in their own space, she let down her illusions. She even left her hoshi-no-tama out from time to time, trusting that he wouldn’t touch it.

She never asked after his coat. Some things just weren’t done.

In the present, Georgie was watching him with obvious concern. “Well, it’s a good thing the winter holiday’s coming up,” Georgie remarked. “You look like you could use a trip to the sea.”

Jon scoffed quietly to himself, because he hadn’t touched saltwater since he was eight years old, and there was no reason he should need to now.

But then he paused. And he thought about the past few weeks, about the headaches and fatigue and feverishness that plagued him. He thought about how long he’d been away from home, away from his coat.

Did he know that he would weaken if he spent too much time far away from his coat? Had his grandmother known? Had his mother ever told either of them?

He couldn’t remember. His memories of his mother had only ever been clear when he was diving beneath the waves.

The holidays couldn’t come soon enough. Jon weathered the last few weeks of exhaustion, sleeping as much as he could and completing assignments as well as his muddled mind would allow. When he finally stepped onto the train that would take him home, it was all he could do to find a seat and nap most of the way.

Only when he neared Bournemouth, and the call of the sea grew clearer in his mind, did Jon finally accept what he’d already suspected.

He needed his coat. He would _have_ his coat. He was an adult now, living on his own for most of the year, and frankly there was no reason he shouldn’t have it at all times now. The only reason he hadn’t taken it with him to Oxford was that he hadn’t thought he’d need to. It was his, and he was old enough now that there was no reason for Gran to keep it from him any longer.

It was an odd thought. He wasn’t even sure that it was a happy one. It had been so long since he touched his own fur that he had no idea what it might be like, now.

Stepping onto the platform, he smelled salt on the air and heard the distant song, and for the first time in years it felt almost comforting.

A dizzy spell led him to miss his bus; he wasn’t quite well again yet. But that was alright. He was nearly home. Once he had his coat in hand, everything would be alright.

Home was very much the same, if a bit less cluttered. His bedroom was cleaner than it had been when he’d left it; at some point she’d done a round of charity shop donations, and a few of his own things had been caught up in the whirlwind of cleaning. Jon endured her usual sighing over the state of him, offered the requisite pleasantries, and pretended not to see her pinched expression when he finally brought up the attic. But as he suspected, she didn’t fight him on it, merely pointed him to the drawer where she stored her keys.

It took the better part of the day to find the right ones. But eventually he got the attic open, braved the dark and the cobwebs within, and found the trunk where she’d locked up his coat for years. He was dizzy as he fumbled the key into the lock, but that was alright—he just needed to touch it, maybe put it on, and he’d be alright again—

He lifted the lid, and found nothing beneath it but a stack of old blankets.

* * *

By the time Jon checked the third charity shop in town, the numbness was wearing thin enough to let in the fear.

Gran had called in help, not two months ago. She’d brought in a couple of her neighbor’s nephews, paid them for an afternoon helping her clean house and carry out donation boxes. They had swept through the house, through the attic, packing up things she no longer used—

And that was what his coat was, wasn’t it—that was what his mother’s coat was, just things gathering dust in the attic, never used—

“I’m looking for a coat,” he told the woman behind the counter, trying not to look and sound as desperate as he felt. “Possibly two. Dark gray, fur, they would’ve been donated a little over a month ago.”

The flat, uncomprehending look she gave him wasn’t encouraging. But maybe he did look a bit desperate, because after he was finished with his explanation, she glanced around the shop helplessly. “I… could ask around? You’re welcome to look through our stock.”

He had, several times. He’d found nothing, which was why he was standing here and asking her. After a moment’s consideration, he decided against telling her this.

She was back a few minutes later, flanked by another employee who quickly outpaced her to approach him first. The “Manager” on his nametag was either a good sign or a very bad one.

“Two fur coats, you said?” he asked. “Gray and black, sort of spotted?”

“Yes!” Jon’s heart leapt like a breaching dolphin. “Do you still have them? They were donated without my knowledge.”

“No, a man came through and bought them a couple weeks back,” the manager replied, looking apologetic. “But—oddest thing—he said someone might come through eventually, looking for it. Left a business card for you.”

Jon took it, hope blooming through the fear. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Yeah, good luck. Hope you get them back.”

Jon left the shop at a run, eyes fixed on the card in his hand, and the neat little title printed in the center in a font just right of professional and left of fancy.

_The Library and Archives of Jurgen Leitner_.

* * *

It didn’t look much like a library, at least not from the outside. It was simply a house—a large house, recently constructed, and probably cost an exorbitant amount of money, but there was nothing particularly stately or academic about it, nor any particular display of wealth beyond its size and existence. There was no marker or sign identifying it as a library and archives, nor a nameplate stamped with Jurgen Leitner, but the address was the same as on the card.

That was not how Jon knew that it was the correct building, however. Rather, as he stood outside and took in the polished facade, he realized that his head was clearer than it had been in weeks. Frantic energy flooded him, a far cry from the clinging lethargy that had dragged at him since his sickness started.

Since the day his grandmother gave his coat away, he’d realized.

His hand was still shaking, with nervousness rather than fatigue, when he took hold of the brass lion’s-head knocker.

A few minutes later, the door opened. A dour-faced man stood behind it, wearing the broad shoulders and unfriendly expression of someone used to working security. Jon shrank back on instinct.

“Can I help you?”

“I-I hope so, I’m…” He swallowed, with difficulty given the lump in his throat. “I’m here about a fur coat?”

The guard’s expression shifted, though Jon was at a loss to decipher it, but he did nod and stand aside to allow Jon through. There was little relief to being admitted, but Jon pushed down his fears, stepped carefully past the guard, and slid his hand into his pocket to grasp his phone. Just in case.

On the inside, it looked less like a library and more like a museum. There were bookshelves, certainly, some of them high enough to reach the ceilings, all of them locked securely behind glass cases. The art hanging on the walls seemed expensive, though that was more due to the gilt frames than any knowledge of paintings on Jon’s part. As he followed the silent guard, he noted everything from illuminated manuscripts to specimens whose name plates proclaimed them to be griffin feathers, dragon teeth, unicorn horn, and even a pixie crystallized in amber. All of them were labeled and displayed behind thick glass and velvet rope barriers.

A heavy hand descended on his shoulder, startling him, and he realized that he’d been about to break away from his guide and head down another hallway. Muttering an apology, he turned away from it to follow the guard again. His feet didn’t want to obey, but he didn’t like the look of the stun gun holstered on the man’s belt, so he forced them to.

Eventually, Jon was let into a study on the second floor. Behind the closed door, the room was a far cry from the rest of the house, clean but cluttered as opposed to the immaculate organization of the exhibits that lay beyond. The bookshelves here were not behind glass, and their contents were thick and glossy and impressive, with not a single cracked spine to be seen. A taxidermied wolpertinger sat on the top of a filing cabinet, and a few unidentifiable rocks and bone pieces were scattered across various shelves.

Sitting behind the desk was a man, tall and portly with gray hair that might have been blond once. He was poring over a large open tome that, to Jon’s inexpert eyes, seemed to be a medieval bestiary of some sort. At their entrance, he glanced up from it.

“Yes, Albert?” he asked, eyeing Jon curiously. Jon fidgeted beneath his sharp interest, longing suddenly to duck behind his guide just to get out of the man’s direct line of sight.

“He says he’s hear about the coat,” the guard replied, and Jurgen Leitner’s eyes lit up.

“A _selkie!_ ” He all but leapt to his feet in excitement. “I might have known, you have that _look_ about you—it’s the eyes, surely. Welcome, _welcome_ , it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

It was all Jon could do to hold his ground as the old man skirted the desk to shake his hand. At some point the guard slipped out, which was only a bit of a relief.

“So you have my coat?” Jon asked. “My grandmother—she was cleaning house while I was away at school—”

Leitner’s face was the picture of sympathy. “I was afraid that might be the case. Terrible luck—though you’re very lucky I found it when I did. Both of them, in fact—I purchased two coats, you wouldn’t happen to know the owner of the other, would you?”

“It—it was my mother’s,” Jon replied, with some difficulty. “She passed away when I was young.”

“Hmm.” Leitner frowned. “She ought to have been buried with it. That’s selkie tradition, you know.”

“I—there weren’t any other selkies in my family, that I knew of…” Jon’s voice trailed off. “So… could I see them, then? Our coats?”

“Yes, yes, of course—you must have gotten sick without it.” Leitner moved to lead him out of the study, then paused to consider him for a moment. “Actually…”

“Yes?” Jon clung to the phone in his pocket.

“You must understand, with a piece this valuable, I must be cautious in verifying such things,” said Leitner. “And if it truly is yours, then perhaps _you_ could lead the way to it?”

He remembered the hallway that he’d nearly taken, before the guard stopped him. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

It was no struggle for him. He hadn’t answered the call of the sea or that of his missing heart in so long, but it was so easy to follow the pull. He went back down the stairs at a quick pace, forcing himself not to run. Along the way he passed a few other people, employees who eyed him suspiciously until they noted Leitner’s presence, but he paid them no mind. His mind was clear and awake. His coat was within reach, his heart nearly whole again.

He found them halfway down another specimen-lined hallway. Their presence was unobtrusive, just two more displays behind velvet and glass. They were hung like miniature tapestries on the wall, gray and spotted and soft beneath the gentle lights. Jon swallowed his shock when he laid eyes on his own. He hadn’t seen it since he was small, but it had grown with him while locked away and half-forgotten in his grandmother’s attic. It was as big as his mother’s now.

He barely realized that he was stepping over the rope barrier when a hand stopped him for the second time. The guard from before was back, keeping him behind the rope while Leitner caught up.

“Excellent!” Leitner was beaming. “It truly is your coat, isn’t it.”

“Yes, it is.” Jon forced down his impatience, shrugging against the hand on his shoulder. “If I could just—”

“Albert, there’s no need for that,” Leitner chided. “He’s a guest, after all. And a very special one, I might add.”

“I don’t—there’s no need for—” Jon stopped to catch his breath. “I’d rather not bother you any longer, so—” Albert stopped him from passing the barrier again. “Can I _please_ —”

“Ah, please be careful,” Leiter said worriedly. “The security system is delicate, that’s all. Every one of these displays is alarmed. I have a lot of valuable specimens, so I have to take precautions against theft. I used to consider the idea of opening this place to visits from the public, but… well, selkie coats aren’t the only rare items prone to theft. I used to loan certain specimens to other museums as well, but the last time I took the risk, it was stolen in transit by—well, the phrase that bystanders used was ‘angry goth’. So, better to keep everything here, where I know it’s secure.”

Another display caught Jon’s eye while Leitner was speaking. Further down the hallway, a smaller display case stood on a decorative pedestal. In it, nestled on a velvety pillow, was a smooth, perfectly round gem. Pale, lustrous, pearlescent with a faint glow. Jon realized what it was rather quickly, and his mouth went dry as he turned back to his coat.

“Right, yes, I understand,” he said faintly. “And, thank you. For finding them, and for keeping them safe.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” Leitner said warmly. “There are so many rare treasures in this world, and it would be a shame to lose them.”

“Right,” Jon agreed. “But I’m here now, so I can take them off your hands. Free up some room, to display some… something else.”

The smile froze on Leitner’s face, then shifted. “Ah. Well… on that note, I’m afraid that I… well, I can’t do that, in good conscience.”

Jon’s heart plummeted. “What do you mean ‘in good conscience?’”

“It’s as I said,” Leitner said apologetically. “So many rare treasures. And selkies are quite rare, and secretive as well. I’d be remiss not to keep these objects safe.”

“But they’re _mine_ ,” Jon said desperately. “I _am_ a selkie, I can keep them safe myself!”

“Can you?” Leitner asked. “You lost them once, to a moment’s carelessness. Just think what might have happen if I hadn’t found them in time.” He shook his head. “No, they’re safer here. You have my word, I will take excellent care of them—”

“I need my coat!” Jon cut him off. “You said before—you know what happens if I don’t have my coat!”

“Of course!” Leitner said hurriedly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Of _course_ I know. I’m not heartless. You can come in anytime to see your coat. That should keep you from suffering any ill effects without it.”

“I don’t want to visit it, I want it back!” Jon stepped toward him, only to be pulled back by the guard. This time, his grip didn’t loosen. “Let _go_ of me—give them back!”

“I’ve heard too many stories,” Leitner told him, shaking his head sadly. “Selkies with their coats stolen, destroyed, lost forever. I can’t let that happen to such a priceless treasure. Not when I have the power to preserve such things.”

“But it isn’t yours.” Jon pulled uselessly against the grip on his arm.

“Ah, well, _technically…_ ” Leitner winced a little. “Technically I did buy them, so I do, legally, own them—”

Jon didn’t remember deciding to hurl himself at the man, but he couldn’t fault his body for the decision. But in the end, it didn’t do him much good.

“I really do apologize for this,” Leitner sighed, as Jon was none too gently deposited outside. “And I promise you, I’m not barring you from it. I meant what I said—come back anytime, and I will allow you to visit. Provided you’re in a more reasonable frame of mind, of course.”

The door shut in Jon’s face before he could reply.

* * *

“What a _bastard._ ” Georgie’s eyes gleamed as she gently mopped the tears from his face.

“Was he right?” Jon asked. “I’ve never met another selkie since my mother, I don’t know anything—is he right? Is it safer with him? It’s been years since I even looked at it, so maybe…”

“I think he’s a big hypocrite,” Georgie snarled, baring her sharp teeth. Her red tail bristled like a bottle-brush behind her. “Going on about protecting it from theft when _he’s_ the one doing the thieving.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” Jon told her.

“Only one thing _to_ do,” she said. “We’re going to steal it back.”

* * *

The plan took months to come to fruition, but in the end it was simplicity itself. So simple, in fact, that Jon was sure that it wouldn’t work. Surely Leitner would have precautions against such things, given how he went on about his security system. Surely they would never make it past the door, because Leitner’s invitation hadn’t extended to anyone beyond Jon.

But that, according to Georgie, was what the waiting was for.

For the rest of the year, Jon visited his coat whenever he had a day free enough to make the trip. Leitner was duly apologetic about how his first visit had ended. He was always kind, always welcoming, always cordial whenever Jon knocked at the door to his library. And Jon, with his teeth clenched so tightly that he could taste blood in his gums, was a model guest in return.

And at last when Georgie judged them ready, the next time Jon knocked on the door to Leitner’s library and archives, she came with him. She had her best foot forward: perky smile with flat human teeth, eyes with decidedly round pupils, tail carefully hidden behind an illusion.

“This is somewhat irregular,” Leitner said, looking somewhat abashed. “But I suppose… well, I suppose there’s no harm in it. Come in, then. I’m sure you remember the way, Jonathan.” He said this every time; Jon suspected he was trying to make it an inside joke between them.

At any rate, knowing the way had little to do with memory. He could make the journey blindfolded and spun around three times, because all he had to do was follow the pull. And now Georgie strolled along beside him, hanging off his arm like an excited plus-one, oohing and aahing at the displays they passed. Within minutes she’d charmed Leitner quite thoroughly, and it didn’t take him long to begin regaling her with stories behind various pieces. The knot of tension in Jon’s chest began to loosen, just a bit.

Georgie’s grip on his arm tightened when they reached his coat. It looked the same as it had before, displayed like a decorative wall hanging, with its glass covering and descriptive name plate. Jon stared at it, lovingly imagining breaking through the glass and taking it back. When he turned to his mother’s coat, hanging further down the wall, the ache in his throat only increased.

When Georgie’s grip became painful, he knew that she’d seen the pearlescent stone on the nearby pedestal.

He’d told her about it ages ago, of course. But he supposed that it wasn’t any better for her to see someone else’s hoshi-no-tama on display, than it was for him to see his mother’s coat hung up like a trophy. It was frankly impressive that she didn’t go for the man’s throat then and there.

After a few more minutes of chatting, Georgie squeezed his arm twice, and Jon cleared his throat.

“Mr. Leitner,” he said, forcing his voice not to shake. “Sorry, could I use your toilet?”

Completely asinine. It should have failed. When Leitner spent more than a few seconds considering his question, Jon was sure it had. But in the end, Leitner pointed the way, cautioned him against touching any of the displays, and let him go.

Jon looked over his shoulder to catch Georgie’s eye one last time as he walked away. She flashed him a grin and a quick wave, and blew him a kiss for good measure. Blushing, Jon hurried away.

He found the toilet, ducked inside, and waited with his eyes fixed on the mirror.

A minute passed. His reflection disappeared—for a fraction of a second, less a disappearance than a mere flicker. As he watched, his reflection smiled, flushed the toilet, and stepped toward the door. Jon turned to see the image of himself at the door, and opened it to “let” it out. He nearly missed the door knob; it was difficult to coordinate, when he could no longer see his own hands.

Nor any part of him. Georgie’s magic was doing its work. In a few minutes, his illusory image would rejoin her and Leitner, and she would leave the building arm in arm with it.

All Jon had left to do was wait.

He tucked himself into a corner of the room, praying that no one else would come in. Luck wasn’t quite with him; one of Leitner’s employees came in to use it, and he respectfully covered his eyes until he was gone. Georgie did good work; the man had no idea that he was there.

They had timed their visit as late as possible, so that Jon wouldn’t have to wait all day. There was a single small, high window, through which Jon could watch the sky grow dark.

It was boring. Miserable, really. But it was also his only hope of getting his coat back.

And his mother’s, as well. Hopefully. He might not have time for both. He might have to leave hers behind.

_She ought to have been buried with it,_ Leitner had said. Jon wished with all his heart that she had. It was a lot harder to steal from a grave than to buy an old woman’s careless donation at a shop.

When midnight finally came, Jon was cramped and restless, skin tingling from Georgie’s illusion. He listened at the door for a few minutes, until he was certain that no one was passing by outside, and finally opened it and slipped out into the hallway. The route looked different in the dark, but he could find his way in his sleep.

Most of Leitner’s employees were gone, of course, but a few security guards still patrolled the hallways. Jon crept along with his heart in his throat, caught between moving too slowly and letting the invisibility wear off, and moving too quickly and making noise.

Jon took a step down the hallway that led to his coat, and all hell promptly broke loose.

At first he thought he’d tripped the alarm, and the flashing lights and screeching sent him bolting further into the hallway. But his panic passed quickly, replaced with confusion—how could he have tripped the alarm without touching any of the displays? And if he was at fault, then why could he see two security guards racing past, both heading in the same direction?

He smelled smoke, and his heart leapt to his throat.

Jon’s immediate thought was to wonder if this was Georgie’s doing. But it couldn’t be—her illusions didn’t create smells, and she would never have risked setting a real fire. And if it wasn’t Georgie then it wasn’t part of the plan, and he needed to act fast.

Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. Maybe with the fire alarm going off, no one would notice whatever alarm went off when he broke the glass over his coat.

Jon sprinted the rest of the way, throwing caution to the wind. With a fire elsewhere in the building, his coat would be unattended, this was the best chance he would ever have—

He rounded the corner, froze, and ducked behind an antique vase.

The hallway in which the seal skins were kept was not empty at all. There were two people in it, in fact. One figure he recognized by voice alone; Jurgen Leitner was crumpled on the ground, pleading with the person standing over him. As Jon watched, the latter dealt Leitner a kick to the side.

They weren’t close to his coat, nor to his mother’s. Maybe if he was quick…

No. He couldn’t count on the glass breaking quickly. Best to wait until they were gone.

“Please,” Leitner was saying. “You don’t know what you’re doing—it’s safe here!”

“It doesn’t _belong_ to you,” the stranger snarled back. A faint glow drew Jon’s eyes to his hand; he was holding the hoshi-no-tama. The pedestal was on the ground, surrounded by the shattered remains of the display case. “You know damned well you’re not supposed to take this thing to _keep._ ”

“It was only to keep it _safe_ —please, Gerard, I don’t expect you to understand—”

“Shut _up!_ ”

And then the figure—Gerard—froze. Jon, who had been peeking out from his hiding place, drew back instinctively. But he wasn’t looking at Jon. He was looking at the wall, and the seal skins hanging from it.

“Are you _serious_ _,_ ” Gerard hissed, barely audible over the distant fire alarm. In a single fluid motion, he grabbed one of the stanchions and hurled it into the glass that blocked the way to Jon’s coat.

“No!” Leitner cried out, as Jon hurled himself out into the open in a panic—he was invisible, the glass was gone, he could get past and grab it—

Gerard pulled the coat off the wall and rounded on Leitner again. “Who’d you take this from?” he demanded. “Whose is this?”

“No, wait, you don’t have to take it!” Leitner protested, voice pitched with panic. “Please don’t take it—he was just here, he visits all the time, I promise I don’t keep him from it!”

“Just tell me whose it is, you—!”

Gerard froze. He turned, and in the flashing lights overhead, his eyes met Jon’s from across the hall.

He was tall, and slender, with pale skin and long, jet-black hair. He dark coat was long and loose enough to hide most of his frame, but it couldn’t quite hide the way he carried himself, or the way he moved. Graceful, steady, and strong—impossibly so.

And Jon—small, soft, weak Jonathan Sims, couldn’t tear his eyes from the coat he clutched in his free hand.

“Jonathan,” Leitner pleaded from the floor. There was blood on his face, and his left eye was swelling shut. “Jonathan—run, get security. He’s stealing it—he’s the one who stole from me before, _hurry!_ ”

Gerard looked down at the coat, then back at Jon. “This is yours?” he asked. “He took it from you?”

“No!” Leitner cried out again. “No, I’m keeping it safe—Jonathan, _tell him_.”

Gerard held it out, carefully and at arm’s length, so that Jon didn’t have to get any closer to take it than absolutely necessary. Jon stared at him, waiting for the catch, waiting for hope to be snatched out of reach again.

“It’s fine,” said Gerard. “Just take it. Sorry you had to deal with him.”

Slowly, Jon inched forward. He took it. Gerard let go of the coat and stepped back, with the orb still shimmering in his other hand.

“Don’t worry.” Gerard grinned. “I’m giving this back, too. Won’t even ask for a wish.” He jerked his head toward the other end of the hallway. “Better get going. The fire won’t keep them occupied for long.”

Jon nodded mutely.

The coat clung to him faithfully when he threw it over his shoulders, but there was no time for him to savor its return just yet. With his hands free, Jon picked up another stanchion and, with all his might, heaved it at the glass over his mother’s coat. The spotted pelt fell into his waiting hands, and he ran for the exit without a backward glance.

Georgie was waiting for him when he got outside, wide-eyed and already looking for a window to enter through. He grabbed her hand and pulled her along, and together they left the library of Jurgen Leitner behind.

In the safety of Jon’s dorm room, Georgie grinned wide and let her tail unfurl from behind its illusion. “Well! That didn’t go how we expected, but it worked!”

“It did,” Jon said faintly, clutching both precious coats to his chest, like he was afraid they might vanish again. “It did.”

“Too bad you couldn’t go straight to the sea, huh,” Georgie remarked, stretching out on his bed. “Ah, well. There’s always next weekend. We could make a day trip out of it!”

“I suppose.”

It had been so long. It’d be good for him, to put on his coat and finally answer the call. The last step to becoming whole again.

Only…

_It might storm again._

* * *

The sand was cold beneath him, but Jon was warm.

Seal fur was made for warmth; whether it was a coat around his shoulders or his skin, it shielded him from the wind. And even if it didn’t, Martin’s arms around him did the rest.

“How do you feel?” Martin murmured. His voice rumbled in his chest, and Jon’s eyelids drooped when he felt it against his back.

The sky overhead was gray. _It might storm,_ his grandmother’s voice reminded him, as it always did. Even now, years after she passed, her warning stayed with him.

Other memories lived on alongside her. Sometimes he remembered Leitner’s warnings about the dangers that lay outside of locked glass cases. Sometimes, distantly, he remembered the helpless terror of being dragged along at the whim of the ocean.

Georgie’s voice had joined them more recently—sorrow, impatience, disappointment. _I can’t stay with someone who won’t let himself be happy._

It always came back, no matter how certain he was when he didn’t have sand beneath him and the ocean before his eyes. The sea was a place for memories, and not all memories were happy.

“I’m alright,” he said. It wasn’t quite a lie; the first time he’d visited a beach with Martin, he’d had to leave after five minutes. It had been nearly an hour now, and Jon had nearly slipped into a doze. He’d forgotten how soothing the sound of waves could be.

A kiss landed on the back of his head. “Proud of you, you know,” Martin told him. “You’ve come really far.”

“I used to be here,” Jon admitted. “At this point. Back when—with Georgie. She helped me get to this point, and then…”

He’d faltered, of course. Ended up all the way back to step one, and Georgie only had so much patience.

“And you’re here again,” said Martin.

“Maybe I’ll lose it again.”

“And you’ll make it back. Maybe you’ll make it even further.” Martin’s chin came to rest on the top of Jon’s head. “Maybe you’ll swim again. Who knows?

_Progress isn’t linear,_ Georgie had said, but even she had her limits.

“What if it takes too long?” Jon asked. “What if I still can’t do it by—” He grasped for a time frame. “—by next year? Or the year after?”

“The sea’s not going anywhere,” Martin pointed out.

“What if I never do it at all?” It came out as a whisper. He wasn’t sure Martin would even hear it over the waves.

But Martin’s ears were sharp, and he was wrapped around Jon and determined to hear him, to see him in the element he longed to reclaim.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess… we find other ways to be happy, then. Books and ice cream and museum dates and… films we both like…” Jon felt him shrug. “That’s all. We do what we like, and we don’t do what we don’t like. Until we’re old and sick of each other.”

“Now _that_ will never happen,” Jon told him, smiling in spite of everything.

“Don’t tell me selkies don’t grow old.”

“We do, I think.” He didn’t know for sure; he’d only known his mother, and she hadn’t had the chance. “There’d be more of us, if we didn’t. But I meant I’m never going to get sick of you.”

Martin chuckled, and Jon melted further into him. “I hope you know, I’m going to spend the rest of our lives proving you wrong.”

Jon laughed. “I can’t wait.”

He still missed the sea’s embrace, distant and muffled through years of ingrained fear. Martin’s embrace was not the same, but he loved it still. It was solid, and steady. He could trust it not to turn on him. Perhaps he could brave the sea again, if he knew Martin was waiting for him on shore. He had time to find out. After all, the sea wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was Martin.

It might storm. But maybe he could weather it after all.


End file.
